The Leopard: An Inspector Harry Hole Novel

by Jo Nesbo

  After running, Mikael had taken a shower and gone upstairs for breakfast.

  He had steeled himself before opening the morning paper that Ulla—also, as usual—had placed next to his plate.

  Lacking a photograph of Sigurd Altman, alias Prince Charming, they had printed one of County Officer Skai. He was standing outside the police station with his arms crossed, wearing a green cap with a long peak, like a fucking bear hunter. The headline: PRINCE CHARMING ARRESTED? And beside it, above the photograph of a smashed yellow snowmobile, another body found in Ustaoset.

  Bellman had scanned the text for the word Kripos or—worst of all—his name. Nothing on the front page. Good.

  He had opened the pages referred to, and there it was, photo and all:

  The head of Kripos, Mikael Bellman, has said in a brief comment that he does not wish to make a statement until Prince Charming has been questioned. Nor has he anything in particular to say about the arrest of the suspect by Ytre Enebakk police.

  “In general, I can say that all police work is teamwork. In Kripos we do not attach too much importance to individuals who receive the hero’s garlands.”

  He shouldn’t have said the last part. It was lies, would be perceived as lies and stank from some distance of a sore loser.

  But it didn’t matter. For if what Johan Krohn, the defense counsel, had told him on the phone was true, Bellman had a golden opportunity to fix everything. Well, more than that. To receive the garlands himself. He acknowledged that the price Krohn would demand was high, but also that it wouldn’t be he who had to pay. But the fucking bear hunter. And Harry Hole and Crime Squad.

  A prison guard held the door to the visitors’ room open and Mikael Bellman let Johan Krohn go first. Krohn had insisted that since this was a conversation, not a formal interview, it should take place, as far as was possible, on neutral ground. Since it was inconceivable that Prince Charming would be allowed out of Oslo District Prison, Krohn and Bellman agreed on a visitors’ room, one used for private meetings between inmates and family. No cameras, no microphones, just an ordinary windowless room; halfhearted attempts had been made to cheer the place up with a crocheted cloth on the table and a Norwegian tapestry, a bellpull, on the wall. Sweethearts and spouses were granted permission to meet here, and the springs on the semen-stained sofa were so worn that Bellman could see Krohn sink into the material as he took a seat.

  Sigurd Altman was sitting on a chair at one end of the table. Bellman sat at the other end so that he and Altman were at almost exactly the same height. Altman’s face was lean, his eyes deep-set, the mouth pronounced with protruding teeth, all of which reminded Bellman of photos of emaciated Jews in Auschwitz. And the monster in Alien.

  “Conversations like this don’t proceed by the book,” Bellman said. “I therefore have to insist that no one take notes and anything we say not go beyond these walls.”

  “At the same time we have to have a guarantee that the conditions for a confession are honored on the prosecutor’s side,” Krohn said.

  “You have my word,” Bellman said.

  “For which I humbly thank you. What else have you got?”

  “What else?” Bellman gave a thin smile. “What else would you like? A signed written agreement?” Arrogant fucking prick of a counsel.

  “Preferably,” Krohn said, passing a sheet of paper across the table.

  Bellman stared at the paper. He skimmed over it, his eyes jumping from sentence to sentence.

  “Won’t be shown to anyone, of course, if it doesn’t have to be,” Krohn said. “And the document will be returned when the conditions have been met. And this”—he passed a pen to Bellman—“is an S. T. Dupont, the best fountain pen you can find.”

  Bellman took the pen and placed it on the table beside him.

  “If the story’s good enough, I’ll sign,” he said.

  “If this is supposed to be a crime scene, the person concerned tidied up after himself pretty well.”

  Bjørn Holm put his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. They had searched high and low and in drawers and cupboards, shone a flashlight everywhere for blood and taken fingerprints. He had put his laptop on the desk, connected it to a fingerprint scanner the size of a matchbox, similar to those used at some airports now for passenger identification. So far all the prints had matched one person in the case: Tony Leike.

  “Keep going,” Harry said, on his knees under the sink, dismantling the plastic pipes. “It’s here somewhere.”

  “What is?”

  “I don’t know. Something or other.”

  “If we keep going, we’ll certainly need some heat.”

  “Fire her up, then.”

  Bjørn Holm crouched down by the wood stove, opened the door and began to tear up and twist the newspaper from the wood basket.

  “What did you offer Skai to get him to join your little game? He risks a great deal if the truth comes out.”

  “He’s not risking anything,” Harry said. “He hasn’t said an untrue word. Look at his statements. It’s the media that have jumped to the wrong conclusions. And there are no police instructions stipulating who can and who cannot arrest a suspect. I didn’t need to offer anything for his help. He said he disliked me less than he disliked Bellman, and that was justification enough.”

  “That was all?”

  “Hm. He told me about his daughter, Mia. Things haven’t gone so well for her. In such cases parents always look for a cause, something concrete they can point to. And Skai figures it was the night outside the dance hall that marked Mia for life. Local gossip is that Mia and Ole had been going out and it wasn’t just innocent kissing in the woods when Ole found Mia and Tony. In Skai’s eyes Ole and Tony carry the blame for the daughter’s problems.”

  Bjørn shook his head. “Victims, victims, wherever you turn.”

  Harry had come over to Bjørn, holding out his hand. In the palm lay pieces of what looked like wire cut from a fence. “This was under the drainpipe. Any idea what it is?”

  Bjørn took the pieces of wire and studied them.

  “Hey,” Harry burst out. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?”

  “The newspaper. Look—that’s the press conference where we launched the Iska Peller ruse.”

  Bjørn Holm looked at the photo of Bellman, which had been uncovered when he had torn off the page in front. “Well, I’ll be …”

  “The newspaper’s only a few days old. Someone’s been here recently.”

  “Well, I’ll be.”

  “There might be prints on the front pa—” Harry looked in the wood stove, where the first pages were just going up in flames.

  “Sorry,” said Bjørn. “But I can check the other pages.”

  “OK. Actually, I was wondering about the wood.”

  “Oh?”

  “There isn’t a tree for a three-mile radius. You check the papers and I’ll take a walk around.”

  Mikael Bellman studied Sigurd Altman. He didn’t like his cold eyes. Didn’t like the bony body, the teeth pressing against the inside of his lips, the staccato movements or the clumsy lisp. But he didn’t need to like Sigurd Altman to see him as his redeemer and benefactor. For every word Altman said, Bellman was a step nearer his triumph.

  “I assume you’ve read Harry Hole’s report presenting the course of events,” Altman said.

  “You mean Skai’s report?” Bellman said. “Skai’s presentation?”

  Altman let slip a wry smile. “As you prefer. The story Harry told was astonishingly accurate, anyway. The problem with it is that it contains only one concrete piece of evidence. My fingerprints at Leike’s. Well, let’s say I was there. I was paying him a visit. And we talked about the good old days.”

  Bellman shrugged. “And you think a jury will fall for that?”

  “I like to think I can inspire trust. But”—Altman’s lips stretched and revealed his gums—“now I won’t ever have to face a jury, will I.”

  …

>   Harry found the woodpile beneath a rock jutting out from the mountainside. It was covered by a green tarpaulin. An ax stood bowed in a chopping block, beside it a knife. Harry looked around and kicked the snow. Not much of interest here. His boot brushed something. An empty white plastic bag. He bent down. On it was a contents label. Thirty feet of gauze. What was that doing here?

  Harry angled his head and examined the chopping block for a few moments. Looked at the black blade in the wood. At the knife. At the handle. Yellow, smooth. What was a knife doing on a chopping block? Could be several reasons, of course, yet …

  He laid his right hand on the block in such a way that the remaining stump of his middle finger pointed upward and the other fingers were pressed down beside it.

  Harry freed the knife cautiously with two fingers at the top of the handle. The blade was as sharp as a razor. With traces of the material he was always seeing in his profession. Then he ran through the deep snow like a long-legged elk.

  Bjørn looked up from the computer as Harry burst in. “Just more Tony Leike,” he sighed.

  “There’s blood on the blade,” Harry said, out of breath. “Check the handle for prints.”

  Bjørn held the knife with care. Sprinkled black powder on the smooth, varnished yellow wood and blew gently.

  “There’s only one set of prints here; however, they are tasty,” he said. “Maybe there are epithelial cells here, too.”

  “Yes!” Harry said.

  “What’s the deal?”

  “Whoever left the fingerprint cut off Leike’s finger.”

  “Oh? What makes you—”

  “There’s blood on the chopping block. And he had gauze ready to bandage the wound. And I think I’ve seen that knife before. On a grainy photo of Adele Vetlesen.”

  Bjørn Holm whistled softly, pressed the transparency against the handle so that the powder stuck. Then he put the transparency on the scanner.

  “Sigurd Altman, you might have a good lawyer to explain away the prints on Leike’s desk,” Harry whispered while Bjørn pressed the search button and they both followed the blue line that moved in fits and starts toward the right of the bar. “But not the print on this knife.”

  Ready …

  Found one match.

  Bjørn Holm pressed SHOW.

  Harry stared at the name that came up.

  “Still think the print belongs to the person who cut off Tony’s finger?” Bjørn Holm asked.

  78

  The Deal

  “After I saw Adele and Tony fucking like dogs by the outhouse, everything came back to me. Everything I had succeeded in burying. Everything the psychologist said I had put behind me. It was like an animal that had been chained up, but it had been fed, it had grown and was stronger than ever. And now it was free. Harry was absolutely right. I planned to avenge myself on Tony by humiliating him, just as he had me.”

  Sigurd Altman looked down at his hands and smiled.

  “However, from there on Harry was wrong. I didn’t plan Adele’s murder. I just wanted to humiliate Tony in public. Particularly in front of those he hoped would become his in-laws, the dairy cow Galtung, who was going to finance that Congo adventure of his. Why would someone like Tony bother to marry a field mouse like Lene Galtung otherwise?”

  “True enough.” Mikael Bellman smiled to show he was on Altman’s side.

  “So I wrote a letter to Tony pretending to be Adele. I wrote that he had gotten me pregnant and I wanted the child. However, as a future single mother I would have to provide for it, and therefore I wanted silence money. Four hundred thousand, first time around. He was to show up with the money at midnight two days later, in the parking lot behind the Lefdal electrical appliances store in Sandvika. Then I sent Adele a letter, pretending to be Tony, and asked if we could meet at the same time and place for a date. I knew the setting would be to Adele’s taste, and I assumed they hadn’t exchanged names and phone numbers, if you know what I mean. The deception wouldn’t be discovered until it was too late, until I had what I wanted. At eleven I was in position, sitting in my car with a camera ready. The plan was to take photos of the rendezvous however it ended up, a fight or fucking, and to send the whole thing to Anders Galtung with the story. That was all.”

  Sigurd looked at Bellman and repeated: “That was all.”

  Bellman nodded, and Sigurd Altman continued. “Tony arrived early. He parked, got out and looked around. Then he disappeared into the shadows under the trees by the river. I hid behind the steering wheel. Adele came. I rolled down the window to catch what happened. She stood there waiting, looking around, checking her watch. I saw Tony right behind her, so close it was unbelievable she couldn’t hear him. I saw him pull out a large Sami knife and close his arm around her neck. She wriggled and kicked as he carried her to his car. When the door fell open I saw that he had plastic over the seats. I didn’t hear what Tony said to her, but I picked up my camera and zoomed in. Saw him pressing a pen into her hand, obviously dictating what she was to write on a postcard.”

  “The postcard from Kigali,” Bellman said. “He had planned everything in advance. She was going to disappear.”

  “I took pictures, not thinking about anything else. Until I saw him suddenly raise his hand and drive the knife into her neck. I couldn’t believe my own eyes. Blood spurted out, spraying the windshield.”

  The two men were unaware that Krohn was gasping for air.

  “He waited awhile, leaving the knife in her neck, as though he wanted to drain her of blood first. Then he lifted her up, carried her out to the rear of his car and dumped her in the trunk. As he was about to get back in the car, he stopped and seemed to sniff the air. He was standing under the light of a street lamp, and that was when I saw it: the same widened eyes, the same grin on his lips that he’d had when he pinned me down outside the dance hall and forced the knife in my mouth. Long after Tony had driven off with Adele, I was still in my car, numb with horror, unable to move. I knew I couldn’t send a letter telling all to Anders Galtung now. Or to anyone else. Because I had just become an accessory to murder.”

  Sigurd took a tiny, restrained sip of water from the glass in front of him and glanced at Johan Krohn, who nodded in return.

  Bellman cleared his throat. “Technically speaking, you were not an accessory to murder. The worst charge would have been blackmail or deception. You could have stopped there. It would have been very unpleasant for you, but you could have gone to the police. You even had photographs proving your story.”

  “Nevertheless, I would have been charged and found guilty. They would have maintained that I, better than anyone else, knew Tony reacted with violence when put under pressure, and that I had started the whole business—it was premeditated.”

  “Hadn’t you considered that this might happen?” Bellman asked, ignoring the admonitory glare from Krohn.

  Sigurd Altman smiled. “Isn’t it odd how often our own deliberations are the hardest to interpret? Or remember? I honestly don’t recall what I anticipated would happen.”

  Because you don’t want to, Bellman thought, nodding and mm-ing as if in gratitude to Altman for giving him new insights into the human soul.

  “I deliberated for several weeks,” Altman said. “Then I went back to the Håvass cabin and tore out the page in the guest book with all the names and addresses. And I wrote another letter to Tony, in which I said that I knew what he had done, and I knew why. I had seen him fuck Adele at the cabin in Håvass. And I wanted money. Signed it Borgny Stem-Myhre. Five days later I read in the papers that she had been killed in a cellar. It should have stopped there. The police should have investigated the case and found Tony. That’s what they should have done. Arrested him.”

  Sigurd Altman had raised his voice and Bellman could swear he saw tears welling up in the eyes behind the round glasses.

  “But you didn’t even have a lead; you were completely confused. So I had to keep feeding him more victims, threatening him with new names from the Hå
vass list. I cut out pictures of the victims from the papers and hung them on the wall of the clipping room in the Kadok factory with copies of letters I had sent in the victims’ names. As soon as Tony killed one person, another letter arrived insisting they had sent the previous ones and now they knew he had two, three and four lives on his conscience. And that the price for their silence had risen accordingly.” Altman leaned forward; his voice sounded anguished. “I did it to give you a chance to catch him. A killer makes mistakes, doesn’t he? The more murders there are, the greater the chance he will be arrested.”

  “And the better he becomes at what he’s doing,” Bellman said. “Remember that Tony Leike was no novice at violence. You aren’t a mercenary in Africa for as long as he was without having blood on your hands. As you yourself have.”

  “Blood on my hands?” Altman shrieked, in a sudden burst of anger. “I broke into Tony’s house and called Elias Skog so you would find the trail at Telenor. It’s you who have blood on your hands! Whores like Adele and Mia, murderers like Tony. If not—”

  “Stop now, Sigurd.” Johan Krohn had gotten to his feet. “Let’s take a break.”

  Altman closed his eyes, raised his hands and shook his head. “I’m OK, I’m OK. Let’s get this over and done with.”

  Johan Krohn eyed his client, glanced at Bellman and sat down.

  Altman took a deep, tremulous breath. Then he continued. “After the third murder or so, Tony knew, of course, that the next letter was not necessarily from the person it purported to be from. Nonetheless, he went on killing them, in increasingly violent ways. It was as if he wanted to frighten me, make me pull back, to show that he could kill everyone and everything and in the end would kill me, too.”